


And I'm Just Gettin' Warm

by Lady_Ganesh



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: First Time, Friendship, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Post-Canon, background Victor/Yuuri - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 05:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/pseuds/Lady_Ganesh
Summary: "I've never been hurt," he said. "I mean, not really. I've never had a serious sprain, any of that. And instead I break my fucking leg in the middle of the street."An accident leaves Yuri Plisetksy finished for the season and mad as hell. Recovering in St. Petersburg, he learns more about agape...and eros.





	And I'm Just Gettin' Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Yurio is 17 when this story begins, so of age in Russia but underage for AO3 labeling purposes.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to fall. Yuri started learning to fall the first time his six-year-old ass toddled onto the ice.

But he hadn’t expected the sharp elbow at his back, the contact with concrete, not ice.

It didn't hurt that much, and Yuri thought it was a good sign until he realized that Otabek had almost immediately stopped yelling at the man who ran into him and was instead on the ground next to him, on his knees, saying something low and concerned in Kazakh that Yuri didn't understand. "Don't move," he said, switching to Russian. "You need an ambulance."

"I don't--" Yuri looked down, saw blood. "Mother _fucker,"_ he said. His hand had curled into the leather of Otabek's jacket. _What the fuck is happening to me?_

"Just hold still," Otabek said, and started talking in English to the crowd that was starting to gather.

"What if I can't _skate?"_ Yuri said, and then realized from Otabek's face that he wasn’t going to skate, not this time. No. _No._

"It's okay," Otabek said, and Yuri believed in the lie, because he couldn’t bring himself to believe anything else.

 

**Doubts Remain for Russian Skater’s Return to the Ice**

_Bejing--Representatives of Russian gold medalist Yuri Plisetsky (17) say it is far too soon to make predictions about when the young athlete might return to the ice. Coach Yakov Feltsman (72) has asked for patience in the following week, as a team of specialists--_

 

The hospital _sucked._

On the second day his mother stopped by his room for a hot minute for a photo, playing concerned before her next gig, and rushed out as quickly as she’d rushed in.

Lilia showed him videos and talks about prima ballerinas who had suffered horrible injuries and danced again. It sounded like pretty lies but it helped, a little. Yakov--no stranger to injured skaters--stayed relentlessly, reassuringly practical about the injury. First the swelling had to go down enough for the X-rays, then the next steps. Just stay calm. Like that was easy.

The doctors kept calling what happened a freak accident. He just fell in the wrong way at the wrong time onto the wrong curb. It wasn’t anything wrong with him, with his bones, with his balance. It didn't help.

Grandfather came, looking pale and older than Yuri had ever thought he could be.

“How long did you travel for? You shouldn’t have."

"It's fine." Grandfather squeezed his hand. "I wasn't sleeping well, knowing you were hurt. I'll do much better now I'm here. Yakov has to go back to St. Petersburg soon, and he said I could use his hotel room until you're well enough to come back home."

The thought of recovering in Moscow turned Yuri's spine to ice.

"We can set up a rotation in St. Petersburg to look after him," Yakov said. "That way we can always have a fresh set of hands. And his physical therapist is already there, his school. It will be easier than trying to move him later."

Yuri looked steadily at the window. The painkillers were dulling everything out, and it saved him having to think too hard. Having to choose between Moscow and St. Petersburg, having to risk hurting Grandpa's feelings with the truth. He wanted home. He wanted his cat.

He wanted Grandpa, too, but he'd had to choose between them a long time ago. And Yakov was right; if they went to Moscow, it would be just the two of them, maybe a nurse or two hired with what money he could spare from his savings. In St. Petersburg he'd have Dr. Petrova and Mosin, Yakov and Lilia and the Russian team.

"Grandpa," he said, and his voice sounded like it was coming from far away. "I'll be all right. I know you can't visit as much as you want to. But I'll call you, I promise. We can talk every day."

Grandpa squeezed his hand. "I want to be there for you, Yuratchka, always."

"You are," he said. "Don't you remember how I skated for you in my senior debut? That was because I knew--I knew you were with me. Always. Even when I was little, you always came to see me."

"Yuratchka, I would do more than that if--why don't you rest? Your coach and I can argue later."

"I'm fine," he said.

"Rest for my sake, then," Grandpa said, and Yuri closed his eyes.

Eventually, everyone agreed it would be best for him to recuperate at home in St. Petersburg, but Grandpa spent time with him at the hospital until then. He held Yuri's hand when it was just the two of them and listened to Yuri complain about the food, the crappy wi-fi, about missing the rinkmates and friends who had gone home and being tired of the ones who were still in Bejing and insisted on visiting him.

Grandpa went home the week Yuri went back to St. Petersburg.

 

Yuri spent most of his first week home wanting to _murder_ something.

Victor landed at the top of the list. He wanted to be _helpful,_ and kept telling stories about strains and stress fractures that were _not fucking relevant,_ thank you.

Katsudon, of all people, was better. Mostly he tagged Yuri into pictures of cats on Instagram, and Yuri blamed the massive amounts of painkillers pumped into his system for the fact that it took a better part of a week before he remembered that Yuuri was a dog person. But long after that he still looked at the funny pictures, at the webcam links to the lions at the zoo in Nagano. Sometimes he even liked the pictures of Makkachin. She was all right, for a dog.

Otabek texted every day and usually remembered to check in after Yuri’s appointments. Yuri hadn't realized that was the kind of attention you got when you had a friend. Even the other skaters he’d gotten to know sent him pictures and tagged him in posts. Phichit Chulanont was so encouraging Yuri realized the man seemed to actually _like_ him. It was weird.

His rinkmates set up the food rotation. Mila and Lilia both objected to cooking on principle and usually brought something from the market. Yakov was a creditable cook, and Yuuri had gotten good at customizing what he usually cooked to fit St. Petersburg ingredients. Georgi told ridiculous stories that Yuri would never admit he enjoyed, and cooked things from all around the world. Victor could make borscht and not much else, but it was good borscht, so Yuri didn't complain, much.

After all, there was so much _else_ to be pissed about. His leg ached almost constantly, he could hardly even shift his weight, and that was leaving out what a nightmare it was when he had to take a shit. The pain pills made him foggy and stupidly sentimental, and he couldn't even have Potya with him all the time because she might jump on his leg when he was half-asleep.

And then there was the uncertainty. The doctor's appointments that ended with more questions than they began. If he closed his eyes, he could picture his x-ray, showing the two hairline fractures on his right tibia, under where the skin had split. Fractures that _should_ heal correctly.

He'd _probably_ skate again.

He had to hope his growth spurt--if he was even going to get one--would hold off until the bone healed, because a growth spurt would make everything more complicated. No one could tell him if it would happen. No one could tell him how many competitions missed, how many seasons.

All he could do was watch everyone else compete without him.

Time passed, and the blur started lifting, especially when the doctors let him switch mostly off heavy-duty opiates to over-the-counter shit. It stopped him from going fuzzy so much and put welcome edges back on his life. His dreams got weird as he eased off the pills, and he started getting random boners again--he never thought he'd _miss_ that--but his body felt more normal, even with the pain that came with fewer pills.

Otabek started sending longer emails, and it took Yuri a little while to realize it was because he could understand more of what Otabek was writing. _Never again,_ he thought, and tried to cut down on the pills even more.

"Don't make yourself exhausted," Lilia warned. "You won't heal, and you'll have to take them for a longer period of time. I don't think that's what you want."

"I want to fucking _think_ again," Yuri said. "It's--how do people _stand_ this shit?"

"They endure it," Lilia said archly. "What should I pick up for you from the market?"

"Something without beets," Yuri said. "I'm tired of beets."

"If you promise to take your pills properly tonight," she said. "Otherwise, it's Victor's borsht for the rest of the week."

"Fine," he said.

He did sleep better that night, and Lilia deemed him well enough to start catching up on his schoolwork the next morning.

Grandpa Skyped him every day. Yuuko sent him a massive box of candy and tiger-printed shit from Japan, which he spent a good afternoon unwrapping. He saved the Almond Crush Pocky for Worlds.

"Don't forget to thank her," Yuuri said, after translating the Japanese that Yuri had needed help with. "She's been worried about you."

"Of course I'll thank her, asshole." He’d already thanked Mari for the hot wrap and bath salts she’d sent when he first landed in St. Petersburg. Otabek’s older half-brother was some kind of hotshot lawyer in Hong Kong, and he’d sent a bunch of Chinese stuff the week before. Leo di Iglesia had sent him music--Otabek’s fault, he’d assumed. It was weird.

Potya leapt into the box and started digging at a corner.

Yuuri looked over. "Oh," he said, smiling. "You missed something." He dug into the box, doing his best to work around her, and pulled out a thin rod. "For both of you, I guess." He handed Yuri the rod; it had a tiny pink octopus on a string at the end. "The octopus got stuck under the flap. Must be catnip."

Potya was watching the octopus with bright, crazed eyes. "I guess both of us are gonna be stoned today," Yuri said, and wiggled the octopus just above her nose. She leapt at it, and he laughed. "Go ahead, tiger," he said. "Hunt it down!"

 

Otabek came to help the week of Russian Nationals. Yuuri offered to stay, too, but the thought of him pining away for Victor the whole time made Yuri kind of sick to his stomach, and Otabek insisted that there wasn't anything at this point he couldn't handle except getting Yuri to and from his appointments. So they hired a car and a nurse, and since the women's competition started later, Mila stayed an extra day to walk Otabek through the endless, dull routine of medication. She showed Otabek where all the extra towels and shit were, where Yuri kept take-out menus. “He’s okay using the grabber thing, and he can walk a little on his own now. But he’s still sleeping on the couch because that’s easier...on everybody.”

Otabek was quiet and thoughtful and took a ton of notes on his phone. Mila sent him out to be sure he knew where the trash pickup was and sat down on the couch next to Yuri. "He's crazy about you," she said. "You realize that, right?"

"He's not crazy about me," Yuri said. "He's doing me a favor. He's my friend."

Mila hunched down, so her face was level with Yuri's. "Friends help each other out. But not every friend would fly halfway around the world to put up with your crap, Yuri-oh."

Yuri already knew Otabek was a better friend than he deserved. She didn't have to point it out. He turned his eyes away. "Look, hag, just because he's a better person than you are doesn't mean anything."

She sighed. "Fine, then. Be stubborn. Just don't pretend I didn't tell you. And don't be surprised if he gets sick of waiting for you." She got up. "He's cute. Someone else will see it, too. If they haven't already."

"Just shut up," Yuri said.

Otabek came back then, saving Yuri any further mortification. "Do you think that’s everything I should know?"

"Probably," Mila said. "But you can always call Yakov. Yuri’s remembering things pretty well too, now. Oh, and the cat gets fed twice a day, but she'll let you know if Yuri's sleeping."

"I'm not sleeping that much any more," Yuri said. Potya hopped up on the couch next to him, probably because she knew she was being talked about. She watched Otabek, as if she was deciding if she’d approve of him.

"She'll still let you know," Mila said.

"She's prettier in person," Otabek said, extending his hand to her so she could sniff it. "What's her name again?"

Mila snorted. Yuri glared at her. "Potya...you don’t remember?"

“That’s a nickname,” Otabek said. “Right? What’s her real name?”

"Tell him Potya's full name, Yuri."

He sharpened his glare. "Don't you have a fucking plane to get on?"

She laughed. "I'll do it if you don't want to."

It had been a really cool name when he was twelve. He still liked it.

Damn it, it was nothing to be ashamed of. She was tough. She had a tough name. "Puma Tiger Scorpion."

Otabek scooped her up easily. "Hello, Puma Tiger Scorpion," he said to her, very seriously, and Yuri felt his stomach flip. "You're very pretty."

She usually disliked being picked up, but she tolerated Otabek until he gently put her back on the couch. Mila gave Yuri a thumbs up over Otabek’s shoulder. Yuri glared at her.

She winked back. "Have fun. I'll see you guys after I win gold."

"Try not to fall, hag," Yuri said, as Otabek said something. Probably something polite like 'thank you' or 'good luck.'

“I hadn’t realized how much she liked you,” Otabek said after she left. “She’s as bad as my sister.”

“Whatever.”

 

Every other time they’d stayed together it had been easy. They’d go out or play video games or just sit around on their phones. When people complained about how quiet Otabek was, Yuri would think _Well, he always talks to_ me.

But now...he wasn’t rude, he was never rude. He asked Yuri how he was feeling, if he needed painkillers. He brought in food. But he didn’t _talk._ He wasn’t even singing in the shower like he normally did.

Maybe it was the injury, or the fact that Otabek went running every morning and to the rink every afternoon so they didn’t have as much time together. Maybe it was just that they didn’t have as much to talk about, with Yuri’s season hopelessly fucked. Or that without skating, Yuri was left trying to figure out what they _did_ have in common, or brooding on how Otabek was older, and cooler, and interested in things Yuri barely even understood.

Maybe it had just been easier when Otabek didn’t have his fucking _hands_ on Yuri all the time, when they were too busy to be anything but friends. When he hadn’t already spent way too many hours on the couch jerking off and pretending Otabek was there.

When he didn’t have the time or attention to catch Otabek looking at him and to wonder if Mila was right.

Grandpa caught him out on the morning of the second day, when Otabek was out running. He looked better on the Skype screen. Yuri still felt bad he’d worried him so much. “Your friend’s there now?”

“Otabek?” Yuri said. “Yeah.”

Grandpa had spent Yuri’s whole life reading his face. “What’s wrong? You’re normally so happy when he visits.”

“I--I know,” he said. “I feel like...I don’t know. It’s like...I keep waiting for him to leave, this time. Like he’s going to go back to skating, and I’m just stuck here. And I don’t want--” He sighed.

“Does he know how you feel about him?”

If it had been anyone else, Yuri would’ve snapped back _it’s not like that._ But it _was_ like that, and it was his grandfather, and he didn’t know how to begin to answer. “He--the first time I met him, he told me how long it took him to get back home,” he said. “To train. We can’t--we can’t. Not while we’re both competing. He’s the hero of Kazakhstan! He’s got sponsors, and...and everything.”

“Have you asked him about that? Or have you decided for him?”

_”Grandpa.”_

“Most boys don’t come to Saint Petersburg in the middle of their season for someone they just want to stay friends with, Yuratchka.”

He sighed. “That’s what Mila said.”

Grandpa’s eyes lit up.“Oh, so there’s two of us you don’t listen to?”

“You shouldn’t be mean to me when I’m hurt.”

“You were just telling me how much better you felt…”

_”Grandpa.”_

 

Otabek came back that night with takeout from Bryzna. They watched TV for a while as they ate, Otabek flipping channels until they settled on something brainless. At nine, he asked “Do you want to watch--”

They both knew what he meant. Yuri knew he should. He was rinkmates with the best in Russia, but watching the routines live was different, and new skaters came up every year. He’d been one of them, not that long ago. Otabek would be competing against them at Worlds.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry--I just--I fucking can’t.”

“It’s okay,” Otabek said.

“It’s not. I’m still-- _weak.”_

“Yuri,” Otabek said, fiercely. “There’s nothing weak about you.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “We’d just have to sit through commercials anyway. And puff pieces about Victor.”

Yuri groaned.

“We can watch the routines on Youtube whenever we want to,” Otabek said. “We’ll watch something else tonight.”

Otabek went to bed early that night, and Yuri wondered if he was watching the routines on his phone in Yuri’s room.

He worked on his homework--Dostoyevsky--and pretended he didn’t care.

 

Yuri managed to keep it together until dinner the next night, when Otabek swept into the apartment without even looking at him and announced that he’d be in the kitchen.

Yuri put his phone down. "Okay. You’re cooking?"

"Yeah."

Shit, they _were_ both bored. If Yuri listened, he could hear Otabek chopping. "What?"

"Just wait," Otabek said. "Be patient."

"I've been sitting on my ass all day. The biggest excitement I get is when I limp to the toilet and back. I haven't been near an rink since--I've _been_ patient! I could win a damn gold medal in patience!"

Otabek came out of the kitchen holding a kitchen knife Yuri wasn't sure he'd ever seen before. It was a big knife, and looked sharp. "Then you can wait a little longer."

"Fine," he said, and picked his phone back up.

Otabek came back in twenty-five minutes later, not that Yuri had been keeping track, and sat down on the chair next to Yuri's couch. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know this sucks."

"I've never been hurt," he said. "I mean, not really. I've never had a serious sprain, any of that. And instead I break my fucking leg in the middle of the street."

"I had trouble with my right knee for...three years," he said. "It's one of the reasons it took me so long to get into Seniors. But it wasn't--it was off and on. I think that was easier. And you’re strong. It’s not easy to be so strong and have to--not do anything."

"Thanks for cooking."

Otabek shrugged. "It's...calming, I guess. Gives me something to think about when I’m having trouble keeping focus. And...my mom used to make this, when I was sick.”

“I’m not sick,” Yuri said. “I’m broken.”

“You’re not,” Otabek said, tensely. “Don’t say that. It’s only bones, not...not you.”

“Whatever,” Yuri said, and yanked out the ponytail he’d been trying to deal with.

“You want me to do it?” Otabek asked.

"I can."

"I know you can," Otabek said. He grabbed the brush off of the tray table Yuri kept most of his life on and wiggled it. "Sit up a little."

“You don’t have to--”

“I do it for my older sister all the time,” he said. “It’s fun.”

"You can't like braiding your sister's hair," he said, as he shifted. _"I_ don't like doing it, and it's my hair."

"It's different," Otabek said, as he brushed. "I don't have to put my hands behind my back, for one thing." His touch was gentle, but not too gentle. Yuri wanted to close his eyes, lose himself in it.

"You never had long hair."

"I used to have it longer, for a little while. Just, like, not quite the top of my shoulders."

“Seriously? When?"

"I cut it just after I switched coaches," he said. "Um...I guess I was sixteen. It wasn't that long. Nothing to braid."

Otabek's hand brushed Yuri's shoulder. Yuri didn't shudder. He didn't.

"All right?" Otabek asked.

"You're fine," he said.

He closed his eyes. It felt good. After all the time he'd spent sitting around doing nothing, somehow this felt better.

 _Somehow._ Who the fuck was he kidding? When Otabek touched him, it sent little vibrations through him, electricity in his spine and shooting south. "Otabek," he said. "You--you didn't have to do any of this. We'd still be friends." _My best friend. More than that._

"I know," he said. His thumb brushed Yuri's ear. "I wanted to. I’ve missed you."

Yuri clenched his fists. "Your mystery food smells good," he said. He tipped his head to one side so Otabek could get to a stray strand of hair. _Stop fucking this up,_ he told himself, and then wondered how.

“Thanks.” Otabek slipped the elastic band around the braid. "Feel okay?"

"Good," Yuri said. "Really good." So good he wanted to punch something, because now Otabek was _done_ and he was going to stop _touching_ him and how did he keep fucking this up? _Just say something, you fucking coward._

Something in the kitchen beeped. "I should check that," Otabek said, and then the touching was gone and Yuri wanted to take everything on the little fucking tray and throw it out the window, and maybe set it on fire, too.

Instead, he settled for sweeping everything off with the back of his hand, sending it all flying; his phone, his water bottle, his grabber, his homework, an insanely complicated puzzle that had been in the package from Hong Kong, the day’s mail, one of Potya’s catnip mice, a shameful number of candy wrappers. It all scattered nicely, but the half-second of satisfaction he got from it was engulfed with his embarrassment; for being such a child, for making Otabek clean up after him even more than he had been doing. Otabek would’ve been right to leave him in his own pile of crap.

He leaned over to try to clean up, but the only thing he could even reach was the tray itself.

Otabek walked back in, holding a bowl and spoon. The food smelled even better up close. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Yuri said. He felt like an asshole. He _was_ an asshole. "Just--" He gestured at the tray, the shit that had scattered in a way that made it perfectly obvious he'd thrown the thing in a fit rather than dropped it by mistake. "Shit. Get me the grabber and I'll pick it up later. You shouldn't have to--"

"It's fine," Otabek said, with his maddening patience. He got the tray settled, put the stew and spoon on the tray, and started on the papers and Pocky wrappers and trash.

"No," Yuri said. "Please. You--eat with me. Please, while it’s hot. It'll wait." At least he could eat Otabek's food like a fucking adult.

Otabek's eyes met his for half a second, and it felt like Otabek was looking completely through him. "All right," he said. He went back into the kitchen and came back with his own bowl and spoon, and a bottle of Elbrus water.

Yuri pushed his bowl over on the tray as far to the left as he could, so Otabek could sit on his right. Otabek hesitated for a moment, then put his bowl down by Yuri's.

Yuri ate. It was a simple stew, beef and vegetables, but it tasted good.

"All right?" Otabek asked.

He nodded. "It's good," he said. "It's really good. It's gotten so fucking boring, eating the same food all the time. And everything had been kind of blurring together." The days, his doctor's appointments. Having Otabek here was better, even with...whatever the fuck it was between them.

"Good," Otabek said. His leg bumped Yuri's.

Yuri bit the inside of his cheek before he said anything stupid. He ate instead.

Otabek's leg stayed where it was.

"I'm sorry I've been a dick," he said, halfway through the bowl.

"You're hurt," Otabek said. "I'd be a dick too."

"Not like me," Yuri said, putting his spoon down.

Otabek pressed his weight against him, gently. "Only you're like you. That's why I like you."

Yuri put the bowl down on the tray, hard enough that the spoon jumped.

"Yuri?"

Yuri looked straight ahead, his fists in little balls at his sides, his right arm not on Otabek's thigh but close enough, close enough that it was easy to think about putting his hand there. Think about what he wanted. "You--would you just fucking kiss me? Before I do anything else stupid?"

"We both have hot soup," he said. "Now?"

"You _asshole,"_ he said, and he started laughing.

Otabek sat up enough to pick up the tray, lift it away from their legs. "I'm already going to clean up one mess--"

"I told you I'd clean it up!"

Otabek shook his head. But he kissed Yuri.

Otabek’s mouth was hot and wet and Yuri knew he was a shit kisser but Otabek wasn't. Otabek didn't hesitate for a fucking second. Otabek kissed hard and sure and he had a hand on the back of Yuri's hair, over that braid he'd done, and fuck, maybe he _was_ an idiot and maybe he didn't care.

Otabek kissed his cheeks, his temples, his eyelids, tipped Yuri's face up to kiss his neck. Yuri grabbed at Otabek's shirt, fisting the fabric in his hands, not sure if he wanted to pull it off or just hold on. "Good?" Otabek whispered into his ear, and all he could do was whimper.

Otabek found his lips again, and Yuri was getting better at this, he _was,_ and he heard Otabek moan this time. He moaned again, harder, when Yuri pulled his shirt up and his hands finally touched bare skin.

Fuck _yes._

Otabek broke the kiss first, pressing his forehead against Yuri's, stroking the back of Yuri's neck. He was out of breath; they both were. Yuri's hands on Otabek's back under his shirt, his fingers spread wide to touch as much skin as he could. Otabek's knee was pressing gently into Yuri's thigh. Yuri could feel every inch of contact. He hadn't been this hard since before the accident.

"Can I suck you off?" Otabek asked, and Yuri made a noise that would've been completely humiliating if he hadn't been so turned on.

"Okay," Otabek said, and he looked less stoic than usual. His eyes were bright and intense. Yuri reached over with his thumb and wiped at the side of Otabek's mouth. Otabek's tongue darted out and licked at his--

Fuck. _Fuck._

 _"Please,"_ Yuri said, and Otabek nodded. He was very, very careful shifting his weight, getting down on the couch, pushing Yuri’s sweatpants down to get to his dick. Yuri talked but it didn’t make sense even to his own ears; just a babble of want.

Otabek mouthed at him, and he put a hand in Otabek’s hair. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ He wasn’t going to last. How the fuck did people--

Otabek slid Yuri’s dick into his mouth, and Yuri let his head drop back against the couch, closed his eyes. Maybe he said something. Maybe he groaned.

Later, what he remembered was Otabek’s hair under his fingers. How Otabek had looked when he wiped Yuri’s come from his mouth. That he’d offered, “Do you want me to--?”

Otabek had just shaken his head. “Came in my shorts, you asshole.”

Yuri pulled him up, somehow, kissed him, tasted his come in Otabek’s mouth. His braid was loose.

He felt fantastic.

They both sat there for a minute, breathing, trying to find words, anything.

Yuri was the one to notice that Potya was face-deep in his stew bowl.

Otabek chased the cat off and handed Yuri his grabber stick. Yuri made good on his promise to fix some of the shit he’d thrown off the couch while Otabek changed his pants and fussed in the kitchen. “Do you want more?” he called.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s good.”

Otabek brought in one fresh bowl and two spoons, and settled back next to Yuri. “No throwing,” he warned.

Yuri rolled his eyes and ate.

They were silent until the bowl was empty. “Did you really?” he asked Otabek.

Otabek frowned. “Really what?”

“You know,” he said, his face heating up. “In your shorts.”

“No,” Otabek said. “I lied about it and changed my shorts because--why the fuck would I lie about that?”

“I don’t know--it’s just. I just--I never got a guy to come like that before.”

“That they told you,” Otabek said. He kissed the back of Yuri’s neck. Yuri could smell his aftershave. “You want any more?”

Oh, food. Right. “No,” he said. “Thanks.” He shifted his weight, trying to wiggle closer. “Can we--”

“Yeah,” Otabek said, and after a few seconds of awkward adjustment, he’d slid Yuri mostly into his lap, his hand on Yuri’s thigh.

Yuri leaned back into him, the hard muscle of his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been a dick.”

“At least you had an excuse,” Otabek said. “I’ve just been hiding.”

“You came back,” he said. “You took care of me.”

Otabek kissed the back of his neck again. “You know what I mean.”

“I didn’t say anything either,” he said.

"You're here,” Otabek said. “Your coach is here. Your life is here. I want to stay in Almaty. It didn't seem--" He sighed. "Even if we did, we’d hardly see each other until one of us retires. Maybe even after that. I didn't want to fuck things up."

"I don't either," he said, putting his hand on Otabek’s. "Why...what made you change your mind?"

"You asked," Otabek said.

"Oh."

Otabek kissed his hair. "It's not like I didn't want to," he said. "You weren’t the only one being a dick. If you hadn’t said something I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

Yuri smiled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, and Yuri could feel Otabek’s smile at the back of his neck.

"So were you, like, desperate for me?"

_”Yuri.”_

"Come on," Yuri said. He did his best to wiggle in Otabek’s lap, and shit, he was half hard just talking about this. "You jerk off?"

"Of course I fucking jerked off."

"You know what I mean. You thought about me?"

Otabek groaned.

"Tell me."

"Yuri--"

 _"Tell me,"_ and he tried to make it sound sultry but it maybe came out kind of growly, but Otabek didn't seem to mind.

"I jerked off in your bed, is that what you wanted to know?"

Okay, forget _half_ hard. "The shower too?"

"The shower at first," Otabek said. "It felt weird, in your bed. And then I woke up and all I could smell was you--"

Yuri leaned further back into Otabek. "I wanna ride you," he said. "When I can. When the cast comes off."

"Yeah," Otabek said, low and intense, and slid his hand into Yuri's boxers.

"Do it like you did," Yuri said. "When you thought about me. In my bed."

Otabek groaned and slid Yuri more into his lap. Fuck, Otabek was hard too. He gripped Yuri more tightly than he had before, stroked hard, fast. "I didn't want--fuck--didn't want to last too long. It was bad enough--fuck. Fuck, Yura--"

“You think about me at home, too?”

Otabek’s hand didn’t slow. “I think about you all the time.”

 _Oh._ He spilled in Otabek’s hand, and fuck, all he’d done for like two months was sit on the couch and feel sorry for himself, when the fuck had this hair trigger shit happened?

Otabek was still hard, his mouth sucking a bruise into Yuri’s shoulder.

“Bed,” he panted out. “Let me--”

Otabek swept him up like the hero in a goddamn fairy tale and carried him to bed.

 

After that, it was easier. They started learning each other again, different things. Otabek was cut, and Yuri’d never been with a circumcised guy before. “It doesn’t feel weird?”

“It’s my dick,” Otabek said. “It feels like my dick.”

Otabek could spend a half hour with an arm around Yuri’s waist watching tv, or playing with Yuri’s hair, though he didn’t like staying in bed too long. Otabek liked kissing more than any guy Yuri had ever been with. Otabek, the guy everyone said was notoriously stone-faced, would _actually blush_ if Yuri said something filthy enough to him.

Otabek maybe really was crazy about him, but that was okay, because Yuri was kind of crazy about him, too. It was like they'd ripped a band-aid off and instead of the pain they'd both expected, it had just come off without any trouble, and everything had healed underneath. He still dreaded the thought of Otabek going back to Almaty, but the tension had drained out. Otabek sang in the shower again, usually in Kazakh, songs Yuri rarely recognized but were nice to listen to.

And the having sex was good. Yuri was all for having sex, as much as possible, before Otabek left again.

The worst part was when Otabek went to practice and he was stuck at the apartment. It was tedious, and the waiting was worse when he knew he could be curled up next to Otabek, kissing him, finding new ways to make him shiver. When he knew that Otabek would be back in Almaty soon, and there'd be no kissing at all.

Alone, he felt useless and idle, and it was harder to ignore the reality that being friends over thousands of miles and two continents was a hell of a lot easier than being _boyfriends_ over thousands of miles and two continents. He played with Potya with the octopus toy and tossed her balls and catnip mice around and watched the warmups when he could find a working stream. Mila looked really good this season. Sometimes he even forgot that most people broke up with their teenage boyfriends and never talked to them again.

On Thursday Otabek had his rest day, and they watched routines on YouTube for a while in bed. Yuri shared the email from _Sovetsky Sport_ with him. "They want to do, like a photo shoot."

Otabek raised his eyebrows. "A photo shoot." He settled next to Yuri on the couch, their arms touching. It felt good

Yuri shrugged. "You know. How I'm recovering, all that crap. I told them you were here, because I figured they'd throw in more money. It’s a good story. Two skaters, friendship despite the odds, both loyal to their nations but--you know. So if you want, they'll come."

"How much?"

Yuri told him. " It's, like, fifty-fifty, so--"

Otabek looked skeptical. "A Russian magazine is giving me half?"

"I told them I wouldn't do it otherwise. They promised no more than two hours, but if you don't want to do it--"

"You should be resting. But I don't mind, as long as they don't make me look like...I don't know, your servant or something."

"We'll make Victor come in and wait on me, schedule it the day after they come back. You'll be the supportive friend or whatever."

It was good to have an excuse to watch Otabek's face, so Yuri could see the smile spreading across it. "How much are you giving Victor?"

Yuri grinned back. "Not a fucking dime."

Otabek leaned over and kissed him, easy, slow. He needed a shave; the stubble felt good, rough against Yuri's cheek. "You're not afraid it's going to make you look weak or anything."

"I don't want anyone forgetting me," he said.

"No one's forgetting you," he said, and slid his hands under Yuri's shirt. "That's impossible."

"Come here," Yuri said, and Otabek straddled him on the mattress, leaned down to kiss him again. "Let's stay in bed," he said, between kisses.

"Mmm," Otabek said, which wasn't a no.

They stayed in bed until lunchtime, when Otabek finally got him up to eat. "Potya will worry about you," he said, and Yuri felt guilty, so he let Otabek guide him back to the couch.

After lunch he pretended to do homework and mostly watched over Otabek’s shoulder as Otabek worked on his laptop.

He liked watching Otabek work, though it felt like something close to magic as he pulled tracks apart and created something basically unrecognizable. "It's like what your short program was that year," he explained once. "Variations. Making something different."

Yuri sort of understood it, sort of. But it was still something he could barely wrap his head around. _Don't get angry about it,_ he thought to himself. _He's seen you be an asshole enough times._ "I still don't get it," he said.

"I know," Otabek said, easily.

Yuri punched him in the arm.

Otabek barked out a laugh. "Now you know how I felt every year I took ballet." He slid his arm around Yuri's waist, and Yuri leaned into him. "Do you want me to do it?"

"Do what?"

"Your music," he said, nuzzling gently at Yuri's neck. "For your exhibition, when you come back."

Yuri remembered Otabek had promised, through Yuri's haze of painkillers and despair. "Of course," he said. "I wouldn't want anyone else to, right?"

"You better not," he said. "But do you have _any_ clue what you want?"

"Something that sounds like me," he said. "Who knows me better than you do?"

Otabek bit at his neck. "You, maybe."

"But you know music better."

"Give me _something,"_ Otabek said. "Don't ask me to read your mind."

"Okay," Yuri said, and leaned back, closing his eyes. "I want it to be badass."

"Obviously." Otabek’s hands slid under his shirt.

"Driving beat," he said.

"You think I'm an amateur?"

"Shut up, you wanted me to talk. I'm talking."

Otabek bit at his neck again. "Come on, give me a mood. Anything."

"I told you badass," he said, tipping his head back so Otabek could have more access. "Sexy. Badass...you know, like me."

"Every skater wants to be sexy and badass, Plisetsky."

"But nobody does it like me," Yuri said, and tipped his face toward Otabek's to kiss him. "I'll think, okay? I promise."

"You'd better."

"Come here," Yuri said. "I can Skype you about music. I can't--"

Otabek kissed him, pulled him closer.

 

The nurse took him to the specialist the next day, while Otabek was on the ice. They switched out his cast and told him it would be all right if Potya jumped on him. "Of course, your physical therapist will be weighing in too, but it's healing very well. I think the timing's been good. The hardest part will be not pushing too far, too quickly. I've seen your performances. You're very driven."

"Thank you," he mumbled.

He called Grandpa on Skype as soon as he got back in the apartment. He hadn't fucked anything up permanently. He'd be able to _skate_ again, compete again. Grandpa told Yuri he was proud of him, which was stupid, all he'd done this whole time was sit on his ass and stare at the walls, but it was still nice to see him. Grandpa asked how his friends were, and he knew he shouldn't just talk about Otabek, but he mostly talked about Otabek. In his defense, almost everyone else was in Kazan. If Grandpa had figured out they’d worked things out, he didn’t say. Yuri would tell him, later. Right now Otabek was a secret he could keep to himself, something special.

"Be sure to say hello to the Katsukis when you talk with them," Grandpa said, because they'd all gotten along like old friends at Hatsetsu and now he traded recipes with them through Pinterest or something. It was _weird._

"I will," he said.

 _I knew that nothing would stop you,_ Otabek texted from the rink. _How are you feeling?_

 _OK. Physical therapy again tomorrow._ There was a lot more he wanted to say but none of it would come out right in a text or a string of emoji.

_Should I bring home dinner?_

_Yeah. Get it at the Thai place, I'll pay you back._

Otabek brought chocolate-covered halvah too, and admired the new cast with appropriate enthusiasm. The doctor had even found a leopard print wrap for it.

"I can do more," he said. "A lot more, as long as I'm not feeling any pain. Physical therapy tomorrow, and it'll probably kick my ass."

"That's what you wanted, right?" Otabek stuffed another forkful of pad thai in his mouth.

"Yeah," Yuri said. "Though that part's gonna hurt." Potya jumped up next to him on the couch, and he turned her around, sent her back the way she came. "I hope retirement's not like this."

"I suggest you don't wait to retire until you can't walk," Otabek suggested, deadpan.

Yuri threw a napkin at him, and Otabek laughed.

"Look, after--after we're done, I can--do more stuff."

Otabek looked at him in confusion. "You said you could do a lot more."

"Yeah, but-- _more."_ He'd ended up having a long, humiliating talk after stuttering out 'I have a boyfriend' to Dr. Petrova and getting handed a thick pack of condoms and a tube of lubricant that seemed impossibly large. She'd written down exactly how and where he could put weight on his leg, including stick figures that made him blush even to think about.

"You're not allowed to re-injure yourself," Otabek said.

Yuri snorted. "The doctor said it was all right. I _want_ to. Aren't you the one who's always telling me how determined I am?"

Otabek hesitated for a second, his jaw set, choosing between responsibility and loyalty. Yuri should probably think, at some point, about how hot that got him. Later.

Yuri licked his lips.

"Fine," Otabek sighed, and then they both had to pretend to give a shit about the food, when all Yuri could think of was Otabek’s cock in his mouth. About waking up next to Otabek, about the way Otabek’s hand rested on his hip when they fell asleep.

He wouldn't get anything like this for a while.

Someday he'd stop skating. Someday--

_This is why the fucking pig and Victor follow each other around like goddamn ducklings._

_I don't want you to leave,_ he thought, and Otabek glanced at him over his noodles, and Yuri wondered if they were both thinking the same thing.

  

The next afternoon, they were curled up on the couch watching _Lyuba, Deti i Zavod_ when their phones buzzed almost simultaneously. Yuri grabbed his first. Katsudon. _Took early flight. Victor incoming. Trying to delay him._

“Shit,” he hissed at the phone.

Otabek was looking at his screen. “Is Victor--is he going to have a problem--?”

“He’ll want to talk about _young love,”_ Yuri said, not bothering to keep the loathing out of his voice. “Is--should we hide anything?”

Otabek got up. “I’ll check,” he said. Otabek would probably be _fine_ talking with Victor about young love. He might even enjoy it, Yuri realized to his horror.

“You’re the best fucking boyfriend,” Yuri said, as Otabek went into the bathroom.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve been using your shampoo--”

“You always do that when you visit.” There weren’t any condoms out, Yuri was reasonably sure. Possibly a suspicious number of sticky washcloths and tissues. “Hamper?”

“I’m going to throw everything in the wash.”

“Good plan. You should probably take out the trash.”

“Already on it.”

“I could marry you,” Yuri sighed.

“You’d _definitely_ have to sit through a lecture on Young Love then.”

“Fuck that, then, let’s never get married.”

By the time Victor and Katsudon showed up, the apartment was the cleanest it’d been since Yuri had been hurt. Maybe the cleanest it had ever been. Victor showed off his gold medal, asked a thousand questions, and seemed generally oblivious to any change between Yuri and Otabek.

Katsudon took in the state of the apartment and said as little as possible.

Yuri got a text twenty minutes after they left. _Sorry if I overreacted, it’s just--Victor._

_No. Thanks._

_You’re good?_

That was Katsudon’s idea of a personal question. _Good,_ he texted back.

(He was later busted by, of all people, the Katsukis, who asked Victor and Yuuri during one of their interminable Skype calls if ‘Yuri’s nice young man’ was as trustworthy as he had always seemed. According to Mari, Victor had looked wounded, while Yuuri claimed, wide-eyed, “I thought you knew.”)

 

**The Power of Friendship! Russian Skating Champion Yuri Plisetsky Recovers, With Help from Rinkmates, Friends**

_St. Petersburg--Healing is difficult work, but Russian gold medalist Yuri Plisetsky (17) has set himself to the task with the champion’s will that allowed him to triumph as a gold medalist in multiple Grand Prix Final and Russian national events…_

 

The day after the video went up showing Yuri taking his first tottering, pained steps without a cast, Otabek sent two dozen black roses to the apartment.

Yuri spent twenty minutes stripping the thorns off and then spread them over the bed, pulled his shirt and jeans off, held the phone out and took a picture. After a little thought, he grabbed the selfie stick Phichit had sent and tried that.

That was better. More skin.

He took two photos: one for Instagram, with his boxers low on his hips, and one for Otabek, with his free hand pushing the boxers down just enough that no one would get arrested, but no one would get the wrong idea, either.

The day had been long, and everything was aching. He closed his eyes and rested until the phone vibrated in his hand. Otabek.

_Do you know what time it is_

_I'm at practice_

_Do you know how hard it is to practice right now_

Yuri grinned. _Hard?_

_Shut up._

_I'll send you a better one on March 1._

_Are you trying to sabotage me?_

_No. Get back to work. I expect gold in any competition I’m out of._

_Don't push yourself too fast. I expect to beat the best next season._

Yuri couldn't stop smiling the rest of the night, even when Mila came by with dinner and asked what the fuck he'd done with those perfectly good roses.

"They're not real, anyway," Yuri said. "Someone dyed them."

"Someone put even more work into it, then," she said. "Are you gonna _sleep_ on them?"

"I just took a picture!" Okay, so he hadn't cleaned them up yet. It wasn't a big deal. They were just flowers. They would die anyway.

"Did he like it?"

"Yeah," Yuri said. "He did."

 

Coming back hurt all the time, and his body hadn’t ever felt so heavy and clumsy. Lilia complained that the hours on the couch had ruined his posture. Yakov yelled.

Yuri loved every second.

After his first jumps, unsteady, miserable, awful rotation--he got another flurry of gifts.

Yuuko sent him a box of Kit-Kats and string of paper fish. It didn't make a lot of sense, but the fish were kind of cute over his kitchen sink. Mari sent him a little gold statue of one of those shachihoko fish that drove Victor so crazy back in Hatsetsu.

He did like Mari's sense of humor. He put the fish on top of the microwave, right at Victor's eye level, and smiled at it.

Otabek sent him a list of beats. _Pick one for your comeback skate._

__

Is this a present?

__

If you want it to be.

__

If you ever get hurt I'm fucked.

__

Why?

__

There's no way I'll be able to pay you back.

__

Otabek took a while to reply. _It's not about that._

__

Don't get hurt, anyway.

__

_I'll try._

 

He picked a beat and thought of a few more songs he liked, more emotions he wanted to invoke, and then sent it all with a link to _Music Sounds Better with You,_ trying not to think about how fucking sappy that was.

 _I like that one too,_ Otabek said, and Yuri blushed at the screen like an idiot.

Otabek took silver at 4CC, thanks to Phichit Chulanont faltering on his new quad. Katsudon won gold, which was fine, because that meant fucking JJ hadn’t.

 _Mission accomplished,_ Yuuri sent, along with a picture of Otabek holding the bear with kitty ears Yuri had sent with his rinkmates. _I think he smiled?_

 _You should be here,_ Otabek texted an hour later. _Thank you._

 

When he fucked up a landing and ended up on the couch again for three days, Otabek sent him a picture of a cat hanging onto a branch.

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

_You like cats._

Yuri rolled his eyes.

 

On his birthday, they turned on Skype and Yuri locked himself in his room for three hours.

That was a good day.

 

Minako and Mari came to see him graduate, though Yuri suspected it was mostly so they could hang out at rinkside and watch everyone practice. Victor cried. Yuuri and Georgi fought genially over what university he should attend, "when you're ready," Yuuri added. Yakov and Lilia had their own ideas, but were smart enough not to suggest unless asked.

He went back to Moscow with Grandpa for a week afterward.

Otabek was waiting for him when he got back. It was only three days, but he didn't have homework any more, and he got to work further down his list. It was kind of nice to be sore for a reason that didn't have anything to do with his leg. To have someone to be sore _with._

 

**Plisetksy’s Return to Competitive Skating Now Assured, Says Coach**

_St. Petersburg--Representatives of Russian figure skating star Yuri Plisetsky (18) have announced that the skater has made a full recovery from his injury in Beijing and is expected to return to the ice in an exhibition this summer. Coach Yakov Feltsman (72) promises that the rising star has "all the strength and power he brought to the ice in his first two years as a senior," and promises that his injury and recovery has added a new depth to the young skater's performances..._

 

It took a maddening amount of negotiation--Phichit Chulanont was far more savvy than Yuri or Yakov had ever given him credit for--but the Bangkok Ice Exhibition was finally settled on as Yuri's re-introduction. The biggest arguments were about the theme; they finally settled on 'rebirth,' as a compromise between the saccharine suggestions from Chulanont and Yuri's better but less-marketable suggestions.

Otabek had flown in first and was already in his room when Yuri reached Bangkok; Yuri pounded on the door until he came out, fresh from the shower, a towel around his waist.

Yuri opened his mouth and tried to make sounds. No luck.

"The guy next to me on the plane was drunk, and I ended up wearing most of a glass of Scotch," Otabek said.

Yuri kind of wanted to write the asshole a thank-you note. "Can I--"

Otabek stepped back and let Yuri tackle him. His skin was warm and soft from the shower, and Yuri wanted to lick every damn inch of it. "...get me so hard," Otabek mumbled, and had to struggle to flip over the deadbolt before Yuri wrestled him onto the bed.

"Fucking missed you," Yuri said. "Drive me fucking crazy--" He grabbed the edge of the towel with one hand and pulled it free. _Fuck._ He wasn't going to last. Not even close. "You want--"

Otabek shook his head. "What you--I don't care. Just--"

Yuri was wearing his leather jacket, a t-shirt with a scorpion on it, a studded leather belt, a pair of jeans, his boxers. Sneakers and socks. Why the fuck was he wearing all that clothing? It was _Thailand._ He got the sneakers off before Otabek had pulled his fly down, but then he stopped, Otabek on the mattress underneath him, Otabek's _hand--_

“Wanna ride you,” he said. “Please.”

Otabek let Yuri hold him down, slick his cock, settle on him. “Don’t hurt yourself before--”

“Trust me,” Yuri said, and Otabek _did,_ and that was the best thing of all.

 

Phichit had been the first of the stars to skate solo, a solid, joyful routine to a Thai pop piece Yuri had never heard before and that Otabek had judged unoriginal but solid. Mila did a Diana Ross number where she switched outfits three times, which won the crowd over completely. Then Otabek, with a classical piece that he claimed was a complicated metaphor for Kazakh independence. Then a group piece with a half-a-dozen promising Thai skaters.

Katsudon's piece began with a projection of his old ballet teacher, Minako. Yuri had met her a dozen times before, but he'd never seen her dance. When Yuri watched, he could see where Yuuri had gotten some of his grace, some of the little quirks of his movements.

Then the projection faded, and Yuuri stood alone at center ice, mimicking Minako's movements, her grace. It was almost, but not quite, a duet.

It was breathtaking.

Katsudon winked at him as he skated off. "Davai!" he called. Yuri rolled his eyes.

Like he hadn't been waiting for this for months. Like there was any doubt what he could do.

He waited at the boards, forcing his breathing steady, listening to the rumble of the crowd. They were excited. That was good. He wanted the energy, needed it. They were ready for him. Waiting. Eager.

Shit, so was he.

The music started, Otabek's beats slamming through the rink. _Don't call it--_

_Don't call it--_

_Don't call it a comeback!_

Otabek had transformed the bits and snatches into something completely different, a new song completely, though Yuri could still hear some of the bones: Bjork, Babymetal, a drum break Otabek had explained was over fifty years old and one of the most sampled in history. Yuri still didn’t understand it.

But it worked out here, back on the ice, the music throbbing through him. He'd worn a variation of the outfit he'd worn at his first GPF exhibition skate, pants, shredded tank top, leather jacket--tiger stripes this time. No sunglasses. He didn't need them this time. He looked cool enough already.

 _I'm ready,_ he thought. _I'm back._

The crowd screamed, and Yuri was home again.

**Author's Note:**

> Songs mentioned: [Mama Said Knock You Out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vimZj8HW0Kg) (which I also stole the title from) and [Army of Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LyEJxzQM24Q) are in Yuri's return mix. I just like [Music Sounds Better With You.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUC2b-OSZ00)
> 
> The opening of this fic owes its existence to a prompt on F_FA, so thanks, whoever asked for "100 words of falling."


End file.
